


Particularly Human

by alyssa9779



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst and Fluff, Cuddling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff, Getting Together, Guilty Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Sherlock Feels Guilty, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Sherlock Holmes Has a Heart, Strong Female Characters, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 09:23:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23709274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyssa9779/pseuds/alyssa9779
Summary: You and Sherlock have a thing. You don't speak about the thing. But you definitely have a thing. This thing of yours is pushed to its limits when you're kidnapped and used as a pawn to get information out of Sherlock and Mycroft. Sherlock blames himself, will you be able to sew the pieces back together?
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Reader, Sherlock Holmes/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 124





	Particularly Human

You’re startled awake by the sound of a gunshot, your unplanned nap in John’s old chair ending abruptly. You groan and shift your position, knowing better than to worry. Sherlock is just being Sherlock. He’s been particularly antsy lately, as a case has been getting under his skin. 

“What? Did I interrupt your beauty sleep? Sorry, there’s only people dying,” he spits at you, pacing back and forth the flat the two of you have been sharing for a while now. You roll your eyes at him, scoffing at his nerve. 

You’re used to it at this point and know not to take him seriously when he’s acting particularly venomous, he’s just externalizing his frustration towards himself for being unable to immediately figure out who is blackmailing his brother's coworkers. 

Of course, he’s good, he’s better than good, but you’ve been seeing a particularly human side of him lately. It’s not that he’s slipping, he’s actually been solving cases at lightning speed, this is the first one to trip him up in a while. It’s just that now he trusts you? You almost can’t believe it, given his fiery exterior, but you know him. You know Sherlock Holmes. 

“Yeah, because giving poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack is going to help you solve the damn case,” you finally say after staring at him for a few seconds. He squirms under your glare before you notice his demeanor change. His eyes light up and that classic shit-eating grin grows across his face. 

“That’s it,” he mutters, turning with bravado and gathering his things in a hurry. “Get ready, we have a plane to catch!” 

“Goddamnit, Sherlock,” is all you manage before he grabs your hand and drags you downstairs in a flurry. He never seems to tell you all of the details surrounding cases he deems especially dangerous, and it makes you mad sometimes. You want to be able to help, but you can’t if he won’t let you. Sometimes, you’ll figure it out on your own and save the day, but this one is more bureaucratic than your liking so you’re alright with being kept in the dark. 

He eventually manages to hail a taxi and is furiously typing into his cell, you look over to see John’s name at the top and you smile at the prospect of seeing your friend. John has been busy lately with taking care of Rose and you can tell Sherlock misses him, as he’s always trying to annoy him into helping the two of you. You can hold your own, that’s for certain, but seeing John would be a nice change of pace for both of you. 

Before he’s able to send the message his phone rings. You see Mycroft’s name pop up and he groans before rejecting the call, on principle, of course. He finishes typing and puts his phone on silent before turning to look at you. He meets your eyes and smiles ever so slightly. 

“This is going to be riskier than I had initially thought, so I need you to do everything I say and don’t,” he emphasizes the word, “do anything stupid.” You can hear the worry edging into his voice.

“You know I can’t promise that you wouldn’t have brought me if I could,” you say, bumping into his side, playfully. 

“You know what I mean,” he says, eyes locked on you. You don’t know where you’re going or where you’ll be even in an hour, but none of it matters because you're with him. You trust him, too. With your life, because god knows he’s saved it before. 

Your sides are still touching and you decide to break his gaze by resting your head on his shoulder. This isn’t new for you and Sherlock, he’s been more open to touch than usual, but you’re always concerned you’re going to push him too far. Your worries dissipate when you feel the slightest amount of pressure on your head and know that he’s leaning on you too. 

The moment is broken by the piercing shrill of your cellphone in your back pocket. He sits back up and you move to see who’s calling you, you could’ve sworn you turned the damn thing on silent. When you pull it out, you’re not surprised to see Mycroft’s name and a rather unflattering picture Sherlock took a few years ago gracing the screen. Sherlock audibly groans and snatches the phone from your hands.

“What?” he bites out, cold as ice. You can hear Mycroft’s hushed, frantic tone but can’t make out what he’s saying. The more he talks, the more jittery Sherlock becomes, not getting a word in over Mycroft’s mania. “Well lucky for you, we’re already headed that way. Be there in ten.”

“What was that all about?” you ask, your curiosity getting the best of you.

“Oh, this is going to be fun. Kidnapping! Can’t wait!” he says, giddiness is written across his face. You can’t help but laugh at his excitement, you love seeing him like this. Despite the rather morbid subject matter you’re often dealing with, seeing Sherlock in his element, enjoying himself makes it all worth it. You know you wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

When you pull up to the airport a bit later, you can sense something is off. You don’t know what, but you’ve got a weird feeling in your gut about what is about to transpire. Sherlock is still riding the wave of the new revelation regarding the case, but if he doesn’t think anything of it, you suppose it’ll be alright. 

The cab was let in without any trouble, nobody asked who either of you were or why you’re there, and it would be safe to assume Sherlock is a household name by now, so he’d be let in without question. But they didn’t even check to see if he was there, the gate just opened. It’s less anxiety-inducing to assume this is all a part of the plan, but you can’t seem to get over the thought in the back of your head that something is not right. 

The cab ever so slowly comes to a stop and the driver gets out, you assume to open the door for his passengers, but the second his door closes you hear him lock the doors. Your heart drops. You should’ve known. You should’ve said something. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Sherlock pulling on the door handle and banging his fists into the window. 

“It’s not worth the energy,” you say, still stuck swimming within your own self-doubt. It’s evident in your voice and downcast eyes that you’re upset. He looks over, his face softening for a moment before grabbing your hand. Suddenly, his look of determination is back in full force. 

“Well, obviously not, but I refuse to sit here and let this transpire without trying,” he says, giving your hand a small squeeze before climbing to the front seat to meddle some more. 

“We’re in the heart of the beast,” you say, still processing the predicament you’ve found yourselves in, “we’re surrounded.” 

Sherlock’s lack of response confuses you until you look up at him. He’s staring off at something and you follow his gaze. Oh shit. Mycroft is climbing out of a plane with his hands behind his head in surrender, a masked man has a gun to his temple. 

“Coward,” Sherlock mumbles, finally accepting the reality of the situation. You’re not getting out from brute force alone, this is going to take some doing. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, two men with automatic rifles hiked behind their backs are pounding on the door, gesturing to get out. Suddenly the doors unlock and the men rip them open. One now has his gun aimed at your head. You roll your eyes, inconvenienced at most. 

“I’m coming, I’m coming, settle your ass down,” you say, hoping to extend to Sherlock that you’re okay. You aren’t overly worried, more pissed off at yourself for your lack of action. 

The man grabs your arm harshly and jabs the tip of his gun into your back. You can see the other man practically dragging Sherlock out of the car, you laugh under your breath, knowing he’s making it as hard for the men as possible to do their jobs.   
They walk you both over to where Mycroft is now on his knees, arms still up.

“Ah, little brother, nice of you to finally join the party,” he says, a twinge of, something, in his voice. 

“Some party,” you bark out and groan when the gun digs deeper into your back. 

“Hey, leave her out of this” Sherlock finally speaks, coming to your defense nonetheless. You all know it’s in vain, but hearing his voice is reassuring. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” A disembodied voice comes out of the speakers typically used to communicate with the ground staff. They’ve taken up a new purpose now, and you’re less than thrilled to hear whatever this jackass has to say. 

“Oh for fuck's sake, enough with the theatrics,” Sherlock yells, you look over and can practically see the gears turning as he processes what to do next.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” Mycroft mutters under his breath, “do not push these people.” 

“What are they going to do? Put us in time out, where’s the creativity, guys? The innovation, this whole gun to the head thing is so tired,” Sherlock says, exasperated. 

“You want creativity? Bring me the girl.” 

“Oh, here we go,” you say as you’re pulled up. You look back and see Sherlock’s eyes widening in what seems like fear? That can’t be right, this has to be part of some big plan he’s made up, so you shoot him a lopsided grin, letting him know that you’ve got this.

As you’re being taken into the building, you can see the brothers being herded into the big commercial jet a few yards away. 

They stop you outside a door and push you down to your knees. Before you really know what’s happening, you’re blindfolded and you feel your wrists being forced into handcuffs. You grin out of spite. 

“Let’s get this show on the road, I don’t have all day” you push, seeing how far you can take this. You’re also beyond over this situation to begin with. 

You definitely seemed to have pushed their buttons and you’re made aware when you’re shoved in the room, the door slamming behind you.

“Darling. Come in, take a seat, relax,” you hear the voice say. Not through the speakers, this time. He’s here.   
“Oh, I’d love to! Thank you so much for your hospitality. This blindfold truly is the best I’ve ever had,” you say, trying to match his sarcasm, refusing to show fear. Objectively, you’re in a weak position, but as long as you don’t show it, you know you’ve got a semblance of the upper hand. 

“Only the finest silk for such a fine woman” he practically purrs and you can hear footsteps drawing closer to you. You aren’t shocked when you feel a hand caressing your face, stroking your hair. This is pretty routine, the whole creepy bad guy, can't get laid, scenario. 

You hear him walk around you to the front and kneel down to your level. You can’t resist. You spit in his face. You’re delighted when you hear him cry out in disgust, you smile to yourself, proud of your actions. 

“Oh, you’ve really done it now, you bitch,” he says, tone laced with malice, “hit the cameras,” he says to what you can only assume are more of his minions. “Now, I know you can’t see it, but I’ve got your boy toys tied up in a very similar manner. I need information. I need control. I need power,” he spits out. Monologue time, you think to yourself. Wouldn’t be the first you’ve heard. “And I know it won’t be given up voluntarily. But it seems you and the detective have grown rather close, you’re always on his tail like a little lost puppy.” 

“Rude,” you say in an attempt to keep yourself together if anything. He ignores you.

“It’s my understanding that the boys need a bit of, let’s say, motivation, to tell me what I need to know,” This is a first. Surprisingly. You know John had been taken before to get to Sherlock, it’s about time someone decided to try and use you. It feels inevitable, these are the risks that come with working alongside him. You knew that when you signed up. No regrets. He’s worth it. “So Sherlock is going to tell me what I need to know, or his puppy is going to get sent to the pound.” 

You’re really over this whole dog metaphor. What is it with these people and their goddamn metaphors?

You hear the man get up and walk away, you feel yourself hoisted up and are dragged in the same direction. Your handcuffs are taken off and put back on again, but this time in front of your body. You hear a rattling above you and your heart sinks. Your hands are raised above your head and connected to what you assume is a chain hanging from the rafters. 

One of his men yanks the chain and your body is pulled upwards so your feet are barely touching the ground. You bite back a groan, refusing to give them what they want despite how vulnerable you feel. 

“Now Sherlock, are you there? Can you see us?” he says to the air. You feel your blindfold ripped off and see Sherlock and Mycroft projected onto the wall in front of you. You do your best to take stock of where you are and who you’re with, but you can’t tear your eyes off of him. He’s on his knees, hands tied behind his back, and there’s a long gash across his face, from his eyebrow to the bottom of his cheek. He sees you, panicked. Behind him, a man pulls off his gag. 

“Leave her alone, you bastard. Get your hands off of her or I swear you’ll regret it,” he growls. You want to believe him. You want to believe he has the upper hand here, but you have to admit, the situation is looking pretty damn grim. 

“I’d like to see you try. Just for that, let’s see what happens when you disobey,” the man shoots back. You try to make out as many details about him as you can, but the mask he’s wearing makes it difficult. He turns around and stalks towards you. You can faintly hear Sherlock yelling in the background, but your attention is focused on the man. 

Suddenly, you’re blinded by pain, a shooting sensation coming from your side. You look down to see the handle of a screwdriver sticking out of your stomach. You can’t even begin to process what has happened before you’re faced with another blow, he punched you in the face. You feel the blood begin to trickle down into your eye, eyebrow cut wide open. 

You look up to see Sherlock struggling in his restraints and screaming. You can’t hear him. Did they turn his audio off? Or did he really hit you that hard? You can’t tell, nor do you really care. You can’t think of anything outside of the tool sticking out of your body and Sherlock on the screen. You hear the two of them talking, but can’t exactly make out what they’re saying. You feel a few more hits to your torso before you daze off into a fitful sleep. 

You wake up in a haze, unaware of where you are or how much time has passed. But you know you’re still hanging from the damn ceiling. You try and open your eyes, but can only manage to open one, the other crusted shut with the blood from your eyebrow. You can’t help but let out a groan, still not wanting to show weakness but it hurt so damn bad. 

That’s when you hear a voice. A different voice, a new voice. A voice that doesn’t immediately strike the fear of more pain into your heart. Is that? It couldn’t be. Is that John? This maybe-John speaks again and is fiddling with your restraints, trying to get you down. Definitely John. You don’t know what changed, but you’re slowly becoming able to make out what he’s saying.

“It’s okay, you’re okay, I’m going to get you out of here, I promise, I brought the cavalry, you’re going to be okay,” he went on like that for a while, just muttering whatever he deemed helpful. Moreso to himself than you, you personally couldn’t imagine walking in on your close friend like this and holding it together as well as he is right now. The last thought before you drifted off again was that, once again, John Watson was saving your asses. 

The next time you wake up is much more peaceful. You’re lulled awake by the steady beeping of a machine you’re hooked up to. Your throat is dry as all hell, but when you realize someone is sleeping on a chair beside you, you decide it isn’t a priority.   
What is a priority is this curly-haired goofball of a main, gripping your hand, tighter than you’d think possible for someone unconscious. His breathing is shallow and his head is resting on your bed, curled up as close as he possibly can to your good side. 

You smile to yourself and squeeze his hand reassuringly. You’re alive. He’s alive. You’re assuming John and Mycroft took care of the rest. You’re still a little fuzzy on the details, but hey, it doesn’t matter as long as Sherlock is okay. 

He shifts in his sleep and then mumbles something before slowly lifting his head. He woke himself up. He’s adorable. 

“Hey, you,” you say softly, letting go of his hand to stroke his hair and get a look at that face. You grimace when you see the freshly stitched-up wound looking red and angry. “They really got you good, didn’t they?” 

“Me? How on earth are you possibly worried about me right now? They stabbed you with a screwdriver!” He exclaims, entirely too fired up for a man who just woke up. He sees you wince at his volume and puts his head back down, nuzzling into your side in apology. “I should’ve been able to stop it. I should’ve known better than to take you with me. I knew it wasn’t going to be good, I knew it was a risk. I didn’t know they were planning on using you as leverage. I never would willingly put you in danger, but I did. And I am so sorry.” 

Your heart breaks at his words, his tone of voice, and his sincerity. You don’t think you’ve ever heard this man apologize, not for anything, and it kills you that he’s blaming himself. You reach down, ignoring the shooting pain in your side, and grab his chin, gently turning his head to yours. Are those unshed tears in his eyes? You know you have to fix this right now. 

“Sherlock, this isn’t your fault, okay? I promise it’s not. From day one, I knew something like this was possible. I knew the danger I was in and I did it anyway.” He tries to butt in, but you don’t let him. “I did it anyway because you are worth it, all of the risk, and all of the pain. You save lives. You’ve saved my life, in more ways than one, and if I could go back in time, I wouldn’t change a damn thing. You are worth it. Spending time with you is worth it. Being with you is worth it. It’s worth all of the stab wounds in the world, okay?” 

You take in the look on his face, the adoration and the… love? Soon, the unshed tears are streaming down his cheeks and you can’t take it anymore, damn your injuries. You place your hand on the side of his face, stroking a tear away and pull him in close until his head is resting on your shoulder, face in your neck. 

You can feel the hot tears on your skin and begin to trace your hand up and down his back until he calms down. Finally, his breathing becomes more even and he manages to choke something out. You can’t hear him and he repeats himself, pulling away from your neck. You instantly miss the touch of his skin to yours. 

“I just can’t lose you, I can’t. I wouldn’t be okay, but you deserve better than this” he manages to say before collapsing back into your embrace. 

“Oh Sherlock, you aren’t losing me anytime soon, okay? I’m alright, I’m alive, I’m here and there’s nothing you can do to get rid of me. You make,” you stutter at the weight of what you’re about to say, “you make life worth living,” he doesn’t respond, but instead, wraps his arm around you, meticulously avoiding your injuries. You return your hand back to his head, running your fingers through his hair. God, you love him. You don’t know if you’ll ever be able to say it to him, but you hope more than anything that he knows. Because you love him so fucking much. 

You can’t even tell when the two of you fall asleep, wrapped in each other's arms. The one you weren’t conscious to see was John walking in to check on you, surprised to see Sherlock had already taken care of things. Whether or not he smiled and took a quick picture of you guys isn’t any of your business, but John thinks to himself how he’s most definitely going to use the picture as blackmail for the rest of his life.

Little did he know, neither of you will care. You love him and you aren’t afraid of anyone knowing.


End file.
